> The Broken Tower

The Broken Tower

Par |2019-02-23T06:31:54+00:00 28 juin 2012|Catégories : Blog|


The bell-rope that gathers God at dawn 
Dispatches me as though I drop­ped down the knell 
Of a spent day – to wan­der the cathe­dral lawn 
From pit to cru­ci­fix, feet chill on steps from hell. 

Have you not heard, have you not seen that corps 
Of sha­dows in the tower, whose shoul­ders sway 
Antiphonal carillons laun­ched before 
The stars are caught and hived in the sun's ray ? 

The bells, I say, the bells break down their tower ; 
And swing I know not where. Their tongues engrave 
Membrane through mar­row, my long-scat­te­red score 
Of bro­ken inter­vals… And I, their sex­ton slave ! 

Oval ency­cli­cals in canyons hea­ping 
The impasse high with choir. Banked voices slain ! 
Pagodas cam­pa­niles with reveilles out lea­ping- 
O ter­ra­ced echoes pros­trate on the plain !… 

And so it was I ente­red the bro­ken world 
To trace the visio­na­ry com­pa­ny of love, its voice 
An ins­tant in the wind (I know not whi­ther hur­led) 
But not for long to hold each des­pe­rate choice. 

My world I pou­red. But was it cognate, sco­red 
Of that tri­bu­nal monarch of the air 
Whose thighs embronzes earth, strikes crys­tal Word 
In wounds pledges once to hope – cleft to des­pair ? 

The steep encroach­ments of my blood left me 
No ans­wer (could blood hold such a lof­ty tower 
As flings the ques­tion true ?) -or is it she 
Whose sweet mor­ta­li­ty stirs latent power ?- 

And through whose pulse I hear, coun­ting the strokes 
My veins recall and add, revi­ved and sure 
The ange­lus of wars my chest evokes : 
What I hold hea­led, ori­gi­nal now, and pure… 

And builds, within, a tower that is not stone 
(Not stone can jacket hea­ven) – but slip 
Of pebbles, – visible wings of silence sown 
In azure circles, wide­ning as they dip 

The matrix of the heart, lift down the eyes 
That shrines the quiet lake and swells a tower… 
The com­mo­dious, tall deco­rum of that sky 
Unseals her earth, and lifts love in its sho­wer.